From the Ashes
by dudeurfugly
Summary: How could he separate man and weapon when the two had become so tightly woven together? Delving into the past he left behind over seventy years ago, Bucky forms a bond with a museum archivist who helps him reclaim his humanity and find the path back to the man he once called his best friend.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I own nothing except the OC's.**

**A/N: I've been working on this for a few weeks now and I'm excited to share it! I know the whole Smithsonian employee thing isn't new, but there's a good reason for it. I'm hoping to take it to a much different level, exploring the history side of things more. It will make more sense as the story progresses. A huge thanks goes out to my beta readers. Enjoy, and let me know what you think!**

* * *

**Chapter One **

It was past dusk when he stopped casing the building and headed for one of the rear entrances. Drenched in purple and indigo light, he used the shadows to his advantage. Listening. Waiting. Keeping his steps light and cautious. The act of concealing himself and not drawing attention was like a reflex.

A week ago, his body was faster, more agile. He had begun to notice the difference. It was a source of frustration to discover that he wasn't familiar with being in use this long, yet he could not summon the will to shut himself off. He dragged himself forward, aware of the dull ache in his arm from the shoulder he desperately repaired without much forethought. Sharp, white-hot pain rippled through his torso just beneath his ribs with every step and he could feel fresh blood seeping through his clothes. He wasn't sure if he would make it to the doorway but survival was everything—_every mission depends upon it_—so he pressed on without the notion of allowing his body to fail him.

He had never felt so human. The concept was foreign. He was never granted permission to linger on it before it was ripped from him.

It had been an endless two weeks. At least, he estimated it had been that long, maybe longer, though he hadn't kept a vigilant count. The clothes he stole out of a donation bin days ago were ill-fitting on his broad frame, though the oversized hooded sweatshirt did its job of hiding everything that would give him away. He had a baseball cap, too, and managed to scrounge up a glove that kept his left hand from piquing interest.

Exhaustion made his limbs sluggish, his mind enveloped in fog. Natural sleep wasn't something he was trained for, but he had a vague recollection of the sensation. Every time he had drifted off, he felt himself falling, lashing out, trapped in lightning fast glimpses of memories he couldn't distinguish from one another. Upon waking, he felt more fatigued and paranoid than the idea of sleep was worth. Shutting himself off was an impossibility.

There was a constant nagging thought at the back of his mind to run—far away, far enough that no one would be able to find him again—but something else had kept him here. If he knew what was good for him, he would've left D.C. days ago. He hadn't. The last fourteen—he couldn't be sure, but_ it seemed longer_—days had left his mind in complete disarray and he couldn't sort through it—_wouldn't _sort through it. The internal voice inside his head had merged into two, or perhaps one was pretending to be the other, taunting him—pulling him backward, back to where it was safe, where they would gladly take him to do what he was made for. He wasn't sure of his purpose now. Everything he thought was so simple, black and white, disintegrated along with the helicarrier over the Potomac.

The clear voice inside still went by Soldier. The other name—the one his Mission called him by—skirted around the edges of his memory, always a fragment he could not grasp onto from the depths of wherever he was put. If he was there at all. There are days where he wasn't, days where he was.

His Mission's name was Steve Rogers—Captain America. That name had been running a marathon around his thoughts and he knew—_he knew he recognized it_, somewhere in another place and time that he couldn't reach.

He was afraid to reach it, and Soldier wouldn't let him.

Steve Rogers' face stared at him from the piece of crinkled glossy paper that was clutched in his fist. It had landed at his feet in some dirty alleyway, and he had been using it as his guide. It wasn't the first time he had been to the museum, seen Rogers and a man that bore resemblance to him only in physical appearance. _James Buchanan Barnes._ He had hurried out of the museum last time, gripped by panic, aggravated by the swarms of people. He hadn't been there long enough to let the information sink in. Or perhaps he didn't want it to, not yet. Nevertheless, it had been tormenting him for days.

Rogers. The man he pulled from the river. The man who stared right into his face and called him—

_Bucky?_ He had been cycling through that name, too, and it sounded like a ghost of someone—another life.

_You're my friend._ Soldier didn't have friends, he had superiors, people who gave him Orders and Missions and—the blood on his hands and a hollow feeling and _the cold_…

Rogers was still his Mission. And while a tiny portion of his mind begged:_ kill_, another part screamed back at him in a broken voice he wasn't sure belonged to him: _know_, _find, rebuild_.

He was good at following Orders. It was one of the things he had been programmed for. So he had made this new Mission. He was nothing without a Mission. _Useless._ And while Soldier's hand pleaded for the weight of a gun, that nagging voice, the one trying to steer him right and wrench himself from the depths, said otherwise.

The side of the building was cool and solid against his right shoulder and he leaned into it more than he wanted to, letting it anchor him. He was a few feet from the door he had been surveying for the better part of the evening. His vision—normally perfect, like his hearing, like everything else that made him the Asset—had begun to blur. It collected a haze around the edges, and his head was swimming with more than his disconnected, racing thoughts.

_Blood loss_, his inner voice scolded him though he wasn't sure who he was talking to.

A slight mishap during a scuffle with a pair of rogue HYDRA agents had him at a current disadvantage.

Sweat beaded down his temples, soaked his hair underneath the hood of his sweatshirt. Breathing was painful and every movement took effort that he shouldn't have had trouble exerting. _Stop_, he screamed, _off._ _ShutupshutoffshutOFF. NOW._

It was a strange thing that he was begging for the ice—for the long stretches of nothingness where pain and thought and emotion and humanity could not enter. Just ice and dreamless, unnatural sleep. He wanted it to take the agony away. The voice that whispered gently in his ear, the voice he swore was the one trapped, shoved the temptation away.

He was falling. Not like in his dreams where the jolt awakened him, but his knees had buckled under his weight. He slid down the wall on his shoulder, groaning, until he slumped against the side of the building. His breathing sounded loud in the empty space and unnerved him. The semidarkness of the approaching night made the bloodstain spreading on his sweatshirt darker, heavier. He wouldn't make it, not if he wasn't fixed. The idea seemed the oddest of all things that had crossed his mind since he ran—_how can a weapon be killed? _

_Asset's survival is imperative. We are dependent upon it. You are a gift to mankind._

He knew _that_ voice didn't belong to him.

Weapons weren't killed. Soldier was a Weapon. _Soldier's survival is imper_—

The glass door opened with a creak that startled him, and he recoiled, trying to push himself as close to the wall as he could. The movement strained the wound beneath his clothes and he cried out even though he didn't mean to.

A young woman stood near the door, both drawn to and alarmed by the noise that he foolishly let escape. He stole an assessing glance of the woman from under his hood and the visor of his baseball cap and noticed a set of keys in one of her hands. She maneuvered them so that the keys peeked out from in between her fingers, and he watched her tense up.

He knew the look of fear. He had it memorized by now.

* * *

His presence caught her off guard, but she kept her keys in her fist for precisely this reason. It wasn't the first time she had exited this part of the building this late. She had been chatting up the security guards, and honestly being here at night after hours was one of her favorite parts of the job. It also wasn't the first time she had encountered a stranger lurking; in a city like D.C., homelessness was an issue, but she was always more concerned about being attacked or robbed.

She was unsure of what circle this man fell in. His posture, she decided, was defensive, and he seemed just as surprised as she was. Though, things considered, she probably had more of a right to be frightened. She slipped her keys between her fingers and rested her other hand on the cell phone in the pocket of her blazer. Chilly late September wind rustled her hair, which hung in gentle waves down her back.

The man before her was drawn in shadow, a ragged hooded sweatshirt obscuring his frame. She couldn't tell whether or not he was staring at her, but somehow she felt his gaze beneath his baseball cap. The darkness hid everything except the sculpted edges of his face; she could just detect his jawline and cheekbones and stray wisps of long hair but nothing else.

The next moment, she was trying to determine how fast she might be able to run from here to her car in the lot. Her fingers curled around her cell phone and she wondered a lot of things. _Homeless? Thief?_ …_Worse?_

Following the good Captain's robbery of his own uniform—which he graciously returned to the collection as soon as possible, with endless apologies, according to the stories around her workplace—she figured others might try to target the exhibit. The items contained within were priceless and would garner a lot of interest if someone managed to get their hands on them. She felt a new rush of anger well up and stepped back as he got to his feet. One of his hands braced against the building and she watched his guarded movement, wary.

"One more step and I'll call the police," she warned.

"No."

He shifted his stance, his other hand pressed near his abdomen, but she took another backward.

Her hand shook around the solid metal and glass of her phone. "_No_? I don't think you're in any position to tell me that. What are you doing here? It's after hours, and if you're—"

It was then that she saw his fingertips, the material of his sweatshirt—they were slick and dark. A few droplets pooled at his feet and if she really looked for it, she could see that it was deep scarlet.

Her eyes widened. She hated that his face wasn't visible to her. "You're hurt."

Her eyebrows pulled together, and this time she removed her phone from her pocket. She had the impression that he was bleeding more heavily than she could even detect. For a moment, a question stalled on the tip of her tongue. She didn't want to know what happened to him.

"I-I'll call an ambulance," she declared. "Maybe you should—"

"No," he repeated. "No police. Nothing."

She heard the pain in his voice, drifting through the empty air sounding hoarse.

"Look, I'm no expert, but if you don't get yourself to a hospital, you're not going to be standing for much longer."

He moved before she could see him. One minute, her thumb was poised above the screen to unlock it, and the next the phone was wrenched from her grip into his. She leveled a narrow-eyed glare in his direction, stumbling back from his sudden and unexpected lunge. The phone lit up in his palm, the one he took away from the building, and for a second or two he swayed on his feet.

"Wait! _Please_—don't do what I think you're going to do." She couldn't get the tremor out of her words. "If you don't want me to call, fine. I won't. Just _please_ don't break my phone."

In the dim parking lot overhead light, she caught his eyes. They softened from their hardened stare. She flinched when he held the phone out to her and quickly stuffed it away. His insistence on avoiding law enforcement didn't put her at ease.

"I won't hurt you," he said, as if this fixed everything. As if she'd believe him. "But this will work out better for the both of us if you leave."

He took a step forward into the odd slant of yellow light and something like familiarity prickled along the back of her mind. She studied him in a stupid and desperate attempt to connect the dots. His frame—stocky, tall—and his stance rang a bell. His head bowed against the pain and more of his hair escaped and fell to surround his face under the sweatshirt hood. Her stomach lurched once she finally put it together: she was sure that he was the same guy in grainy newspaper photographs and filtered Instagram photos and shaky phone videos that had been dominating every media space in the past week. The guy everyone was looking for.

She hadn't been as absorbed in it as her roommate, Mia, who had been following his trail on social media and running through conspiracy theories. She, meanwhile, had picked up on information via news headlines. Right now, she scolded herself for not sifting through the SHIELD documents sooner. _The Winter Soldier. The Asset. Assassin. Considered to be armed and extremely dangerous. _

That was all it took for her to run to her car without another word, the edges of her keys digging into her palm so hard she wondered if they would leave bruises. Her heart hammered in her chest, blood pounding through her ears as she jumped into the driver's seat and locked the door. She was almost sure he would come flying at her car any moment now, metal fist crashing through her windows and bullets tearing through everything else.

The parking lot was eerily quiet.

She started up the engine.

He was lying against the building when her car zoomed past him, probably leaving haphazard tread marks. She hated that she felt terrible for driving off, for the sympathy that had suddenly worked its way into her mind.

Her car sidled into evening traffic, her face aglow with red brake lights. She despised this even more, being stuck in the lines of other vehicles and her own second guessing. She couldn't stop picturing him back there, his blood spilling across the concrete while he forced out shallow breaths. Her thoughts fought a civil war between _he's a highly trained assassin who cares if he dies_ and _you know this will haunt your subconscious if you don't help him_.

"He could rip my throat out in two seconds if he wanted," she said to herself.

_But he didn't. What kind of cold-blooded killer lets someone go?_

The steering wheel was cool against her forehead. "This is _not_ a good train of thought."

_I won't hurt you._ That promise—thin, but it sounded so broken, so _human_. It was easy to dehumanize someone who was only their crimes and nothing more. To see a monster and not a man. _And the look in his eyes… _

"No." She sat back up and gripped the steering wheel instead.

Her phone sat in the center console and she glanced at it with consideration. She debated between her options and knew she was obligated to call. Then, a new ultimatum presented itself: _Go back. If he's not there, call. If he is…_

_Hospital. They'll take care of him. That's it. _

It was her father's side of the gene pool calling the shots now, she was sure of it. That was the explanation she gave herself as she turned around at the next side street and headed back toward the museum.

"Damn it."

His dark outline was visible against the building in the same spot. He lifted his head at the noise of her car halting next to him, but he didn't move. She sighed and rolled down the passenger window, hating herself the entire time.

If she got killed, she thought, it was her own idiotic fault.

"Get in." Her voice was a low, harsh whisper.

He wasn't moving, but for some reason she knew he was staring at her. She shivered at the idea.

"Get in or bleed to death, I don't care," she ordered. "I'll call the cops if you don't move."

He grunted, which was something, and picked himself off the ground. He doubled over when he reached the door handle, and he climbed into the passenger seat with a stifled noise of discomfort. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all—the fact that he looked comical trying to fit into her tiny Buick and that she was in possession of a national—_international?_—assassin.

"You shouldn't have done that," he said once the car took off.

"I know." She didn't look at him. "Just so we're clear, if you try anything close to a hostile advance between here and the hospital, I _will_ call the police. No matter how many times you say no."

He looked at her, or rather, turned his head in her direction, though he was pressed up against the door as far as he could manage. She wondered how difficult it would be to shove him out the door if he tried to kill her. It was distressing that she couldn't read his face.

"Hospital? You can't take me there."

"Yes, I can, and I'm going to." Her hands were trembling again. She hoped he couldn't see it. But she supposed he was trained to pick up on such things.

"Please." That's a word she hadn't expected to hear from him. Not in that tone. "I can't go back. I don't want to go back. _You can't take me there_."

"Why?"

He let out a long-suffering sigh. "I told you I won't hurt you."

"How can I trust you?"

She heard his confidence waver. It didn't seem right. The concept didn't fit him.

"I…I don't know."

"Exactly."

"But I need you to try."

_Right._ She could use this to her advantage. Gain his trust and then call the proper authorities once he had medical attention. Problem solved. If he didn't kill her first.

"That's asking a lot." He didn't reply, so she continued, "My roommate, she's a nurse practitioner. She's on shift right now…I'm not sure when she'll be home, but she's the only person who might be able to help."

His forehead settled against the window. "Fine."

The traffic was slow through the city, as it always was, and for the first ten minutes she attempted not to let it set her on edge. She tried to find his face in the lights they passed under, but he kept himself away from her and tossed glances over his shoulder every two minutes. He checked the side mirror, the back windows. His paranoia became contagious, and she found herself growing cautious at every red light, hoping no one would peer too long into her passenger side. The shadows seemed to protect him.

She felt like she had a target on her. She envisioned a legion of police cars and SWAT raining down upon them and helicopters swooping in with their searchlights across the roof above. Goosebumps rose on her skin when she imagined red dots searching them for a clear shot.

Once the traffic became less congested, she felt safer to say, "My name's Lily, if you wanted to know." But she wasn't sure if telling him her name was the wisest choice. She didn't know his.

And he didn't give it.

* * *

Five minutes ticked by before Lily realized he had passed out against the window. He had ceased his constant mirror and window checks, and she had assumed the lack of aggressive response from other cars—aside from the occasional horn or rude gesture—and law enforcement presence had relieved the tension. At the next red light, Lily reached over to tap his shoulder, tentatively. She withdrew her fingers, afraid he would break them or possibly snap her wrist. Lily's breath hitched, her fingertips connecting with something other than flesh and bone and muscle. She took a few breaths to compose herself, but she couldn't stop picturing solid metal beneath the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

It both comforted and unnerved her that he hadn't responded to her touch. His even and steady breathing was her only clue that he was still alive. The smell of iron, however, was strong in her nose, and it worried her. If it was worse than she thought, if he didn't get help in time, how would she be able to explain away a dead assassin in her car? Lily was fairly certain you couldn't just explain those things without landing in a prison cell. She had no interest in being arrested and ruining the family name for becoming an accomplice.

_Emotional manipulation is probably part of his skill set. Can't take anything he says at face value. _

_Screw it. _

Lily made a hard turn at the next street, causing her myriad of books and poster tubes in the backseat to go sliding and crashing onto the floor. She cringed at the onslaught, daring a glance at the passenger seat. He was still out. Protected by the poor lighting, Lily could barely make out the stray strands of dark hair that had escaped his hood. She caught a trace of a beard along his jawline, but nothing more. The way he had slumped against the corner of the seat and the window was almost excruciating to witness. The position couldn't have been doing any favors to the wound on his torso.

Several streets later, Lily balanced her phone on the dashboard and called her roommate, Mia, on speaker. Her shift had started a couple hours ago, so the voicemail clicking on wasn't unexpected. Lily just hoped Mia would get the message in time.

"Hey, it's me," Lily said, her tone harried, "I know how horrible this is going to sound, but I can't explain much over the phone. I'll be at the hospital in five minutes and I have…someone here who needs stitching up. It's…pretty bad, just so you're prepared. We'll need to get in through the back, keep it quiet. Might cause a huge scene. Special circumstances, okay? I need your help."

* * *

Her tires squealed as she came to a stop in the back lot of the hospital, pulling forward into a parking space. She chose to sandwich her Buick in between a minivan and a rust bucket of an SUV, assuming the vehicles wouldn't bring much attention. Mia would probably be expecting them at the doors, but Lily didn't want to risk it. Her phone buzzed, alerting her to an incoming text message. _Mia._

_Rear entrance. Where are you?_

Quickly, Lily texted, _Parking lot. Hurry._

Grabbing her bag from between the seats, Lily shut off the car and tossed her keys in. She rounded the back end and moved over to the passenger side, her heels making a steady rhythm against the pavement. Opening the door was a challenge with half his weight against it, and Lily struggled for a moment to keep him from falling. He had collapsed in such a way that the seat and the doorframe prevented his escape. It looked terribly uncomfortable, but Lily was grateful for the reprieve.

His forehead against pressed the frame inside the door, and Lily found herself suddenly curious. He had been so adamant about hiding from her. She supposed it was for the best, but his image was plastered across every available news station and nearly all corners of the internet. Every single photo Lily had caught of him had been grainy, filtered, or too far away and out of focus. Most could only capture his retreating form, a silhouette of dark clothing and shining metal. Nearly everyone who'd taken photos and videos did not venture to get too close.

Lily couldn't blame them. Being this close made her apprehensive. But she'd always had a streak of inquisitiveness, which normally proved to be a good thing when it came to archival work.

In this case, it was probably stupid.

She needed an additional few moments to summon the courage to even touch him again. Her hand hovered over his hood, and she recoiled, expecting him to lash out. She watched his chest rise and fall for a minute. Counted. Inhaled, then exhaled. She tugged the hood away from the cap it was hiding, and gently took that off, too. Lily retreated when he stirred the slightest bit, but held her breath again while sweeping strands of dark brown hair out of his face.

Her eyes widened.

The face she uncovered was one that she had seen a hundred times over, one that greeted her every day at work. It was a face that old stories and history had always told her to trust.

Lily knew him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the OC's.**

**A/N: Thank you so much for your reviews, alerts, and favorites! **

* * *

**Chapter Two**

A chill ran the length of Lily's spine and the air seemed stagnant, leaving her breathless and numb. His cap toppled from her grasp to the car floor and she stumbled, backpedalling out of the space between her Buick and the minivan. Dread rushed at her from all sides and made her cheeks warm, her chest seized by an invisible weight. She was shaking for real now, her whole body wracking as she tried in vain to take even breaths and force down the nausea that caused both her stomach and head to spin. It was a monumental effort for her to keep upright.

Lily pressed a hand to her mouth before kneading her fingers through gentle waves of long, honey brown hair. She wanted to look again, to make sure she had in fact seen what she thought she did, but she couldn't bring herself to do it. Her legs wobbled, and she had yet to succeed in getting the swell of confusion and shock to pass. She paced the small section of asphalt between cars, then paused at the edge of the parking spaces, her face buried in her palms. Lily felt the familiar prickling of unshed tears at the corners of her eyes, the burning at the back of her throat, but she sniffled to tame them.

She'd made a grave mistake bringing him here. She should have stuck with Plan A.

_Go_, her mind screamed, _Go, get out now. You can still—_

She fumbled to retrieve the keys from her bag.

"Lily?"

It was too late.

Lily pivoted on her heel and was greeted by Mia, who toted a wheelchair and had brought a male nurse along with her. Mia's pastel pink scrubs stood out against her olive skin, and her hair was done in its usual neat ponytail. The nurse beside her walked with a somewhat hunched gait, likely due to the late September night. There was a colorful tattoo wrapped around his forearm.

"Thought a wheelchair would draw less attention than a gurney," she explained. Her eyebrows were gathered in a stern, questioning line. "What's going on? Are you all right? You look like you've just seen a ghost."

Somewhere in the recesses of her mind, she was laughing. But the sound that came out of her mouth was a choked whine of panic that made Mia's already wilting patience thin.

"Lily?" she repeated.

She was in a daze. "He might have been shot or stabbed, I'm not sure," Lily answered.

She stepped aside so Mia could brush past her, towing the wheelchair as far as it would go. Mia's gasp was Lily's clue that she had seen the same thing—except in a different light. She knew Mia would only recognize one side of him.

There was a thud as Mia backtracked into the side door of the minivan, her arms thrown up in front of her. At first, Lily thought he'd woken up and accosted her, but the wide-eyed fear on Mia's face told her otherwise.

"Lily," she said, slowly, "you better start telling me what's going on. I thought I'd be stitching up one of your Smithsonian buddies, not…not…do you know who that is?"

"Of course I—"

Mia interrupted with a cynical laugh. "Oh, okay, so why isn't the FBI, CIA, Homeland Security, whatever—_the police_ here to take him away? What the hell are you doing? Didn't you think 911 was a good idea?"

"We're not calling anyone," Lily told her. Her voice was quiet. She was surprised by her own steely resolve. It was like a light switch had been flicked on. "You need to keep your voice down so I can explain."

"Forget it. No explaining is going to make any sense out of this." Mia gave her a sidelong scowl.

"Mia, I need your help," Lily said. "He's hurt, and you're the only one who can give him proper medical care and keep it quiet." Mia was about to continue, but Lily cut her off. "We can't make a scene, we can't call the police. Just…trust me, all right?"

Mia shook her head. "Hell no. I didn't sign up to be your accomplice harboring a fugitive _inside a goddamn hospital_."

Her nurse friend remained at his post toward the end of the space, arms folded, watching the two of them argue. Lily didn't like him being there, listening to all of this.

"I know how bad it looks," Lily said. "But—"

Mia crossed her arms. Her tone was urgent, in complete disbelief. "No, I don't think you do. You could go to prison for this, Lily. I could get fired! I'm obligated to call the police, I can't just let this go."

Lily dared a glance behind her and saw him slumped in the passenger seat, remembered the pungent smell of his blood. "Please, help him. If this goes south, I'll keep you out of it, I promise." Mia didn't look convinced. "I promise, Mia, _please_. He'll die if he loses any more blood."

"Then let him. He's not my problem. He's not yours, either." Her gaze turned cold.

"He's not who you think," Lily replied. "He is, but…he isn't."

She wasn't sure how she could reason with the new information and relay it to her roommate. Lily was still attempting to process it herself, and she wasn't doing a very good job. The face she knew, the man who was wanted for atrocities, how could they be one in the same? It felt as though the rug had been violently ripped out from under her feet. Her mind sprinted at a break-neck pace, running in circles around what she knew about him and everything that had turned him into someone even he couldn't recognize.

"You have to start making sense."

"I'll try to explain later—there's no time now. Trust me. I wouldn't lie about this. We have to get him inside."

Mia's scowl hadn't faded. "I better be alive by the time we get through this," she muttered. "I hope you understand how much of a risk I'm taking. You owe me." Mia scoffed. "Better yet, you owe me for the next three months."

"Yeah, I know."

* * *

It took the three of them to get him from the car to the wheelchair. He was all dead weight and muscle, no help to any of them whatsoever. Lily had a feeling the artificial arm added to the burden, but everyone had elected to ignore it. She tugged his hood up to conceal his face; his chin had dropped forward to his chest, shielding him from view. Mia led them through the parking lot, her nurse friend carting the wheelchair and Lily on his right flank. The wheels squeaked obnoxiously over potholes and divots in the pavement. It was slick from a light misting of rain that had begun to fall, reflecting the overhead lights.

Lily felt terrible for Mia's chosen assistant. He looked pale, like he would rather be anywhere on the planet than dragged into this mess she'd unwittingly created. He had a white-knuckled grip on the handles and avoided eye contact with the patient in question. Lily couldn't find it in her to trust this guy—people like him were flighty, able to crack under pressure. She knew he was summoning all his willpower not to bolt and flag down the nearest police officer.

She tugged on his sleeve, directing his line of vision to her. He was taller, and had to blink down at her. "Not a word."

His expression was trance-like. He didn't answer.

"Did you hear me?" Lily asked. "Not one word to anyone while we're here, or it won't end well for you."

He gulped. Lily didn't know if her threat was empty or not. She wasn't in a position to do anything to him if he alerted the authorities, but she had a strong feeling their patient would be none too happy once he finally regained consciousness. Getting him arrested on top of it would not be the best course of action. The surge of protective instinct was new to her, and she hadn't expected this kind of about-face so quickly.

Mia navigated through the back doors and they simultaneously disregarded every person they walked past, dissolving into the ebb and flow of traffic. She had explained to Lily that she had a room ready on the fourth level at the very end of an often abandoned corridor, since the exam rooms downstairs would leave them out in the open, easily discovered. Mia had never done a thing like this—and Lily wasn't exactly known for escorting Most Wanted assassins—so she had to make sure the corridor was fairly secure and they could slip past the important people who would ask questions.

While Mia distracted the admittance desk, Lily and Mia's nurse friend—whose name she'd gathered was Isaac, from his ID badge—headed for the elevators. Lily waited for the most scarcely populated one, and they spent the short ride awkwardly avoiding the side-eye glances from an elderly couple and a mother with a sleeping child cradled against her hip.

Lily let out a breath she'd been holding when they crossed the threshold out of the elevator.

"This way," Isaac said. He made a series of left and right turns, guiding them through the hallways by memory.

The foot traffic was minimal compared to the lower floor, but Lily decided to remain several paces behind them. She kept her strides brisk and her chin up as though she had the confidence to be there. As if she couldn't feel her pulse hammering away and the persistent nausea threatening to make her throw up.

Lily offered friendly smiles and maintained a nonchalant attitude to anyone clad in scrubs or a lab coat that she encountered. It didn't do much to quell the feeling that she once again had a target on her back but it was enough to keep up the façade that she knew what the hell she was doing. Isaac didn't have trouble accompanying an unconscious patient without being interrogated—no one knew if he was sleeping or passed out by a mere glance, and Mia had tossed a blanket over him from Lily's trunk to hide the fact that his clothes and hands were bloodstained.

Isaac disappeared behind the last door at the end of a hallway across from an alcove. Lily slowed her pace and waited another minute before she went inside and shut the door behind her. It was a standard hospital room equipped with two beds separated by a curtain and a tiny bathroom, all business and drab in that sterile way that was commonplace for a hospital. Her first instinct was to launch herself at the windows and close the blinds, afraid of lurkers or trained rifles or a military grade helicopter.

Lily disposed of her bag and blazer on the armchair opposite the bed that Isaac had parked the wheelchair next to. She desperately hoped no one would need this room in the time they were occupying it. They'd missed the influx of chaos from the attacks over the Potomac and SHIELD headquarters by a couple weeks, but the dangers of being stumbled upon were many. She wasn't sure how long they would be able to stay, much less if she'd be able to convince him stick around. All Lily knew was that she wanted to get him out of here as fast as humanly possible and without incident.

Transferring him to the bed wasn't the chore it had been at the car. The hospital bed was a lot more accommodating, and soon Isaac and Lily had his head propped up on a couple of pillows. Lily prayed he would stay unconscious for the majority of this. It was easier for everyone.

Lily stole a glimpse of his face. He looked awful in the harsh fluorescent lighting, which seemed only to help drain any traces of color he had left. His hair was tangled and matted, much longer than she'd ever seen it. The planes of his face were gaunt and his eyes were rimmed and underlined in purple and red—traces, she guessed, of a lack of sleep and nutrition. She remembered a few pictures of him—rare, incredibly so—right after he'd been liberated from HYDRA forces. His eyes had held the same appearance then.

She tore her gaze away from him, sorrow coiling in the pit of her stomach.

Isaac had stripped the blankets and sheets, piling them on the unused bed behind the curtain. They were waiting for Mia to show up with supplies, but Lily grew impatient while every dire minute passed. She made a move to unzip the hooded sweatshirt, but Isaac grabbed her hand with his gloved one.

"I can't let you do that."

"I think it's a little late for that now," Lily countered.

Isaac gave her a sheepish and faint smirk. "We'll take the sweatshirt off and get the shirt underneath to use as a bandage to stop the blood while we wait for Mia."

Mia's delayed arrival started to worry her, but she nodded.

Lily folded the sweatshirt and dropped it to the floor. She heard the fabric rip, Isaac tearing up the dingy gray t-shirt splattered crimson. A secondary shirt had been wrapped and notched around his torso over the wound, acting like a bandage.

"Looks like he beat you to it."

Isaac was preoccupied, his eyes focused on something else. Lily saw the handle of a gun in the waistband of his jeans at the small of back, and a belt at his hips laden with extra ammunition. Isaac regarded both anxiously before he stared at her. His stare was less of a request and more of a, _please take care of this before I quit_, _change my name, and leave the country_ kind of look.

"Right."

The belt unhooked effortlessly, though Lily wasn't comfortable with the weight in her hands. She stowed it in the bottom of her bag before she could even consider retrieving the gun. Isaac turned him on his side the slightest bit, and Lily's fingers trembled as they reached for the handle.

_Please stay unconscious. _

The millisecond contact of his skin against hers felt too dangerous for her.

Once the gun was free, she made sure the safety was on, and tucked the weapon into her bag alongside his ammunition. Lily knew he wouldn't be pleased when he figured out she'd forced him to surrender his weapon, but allowing him to be armed inside a hospital was the worst idea of all the bad ideas she'd had tonight.

"Jesus," Isaac whispered.

His gloved hands paused above the makeshift bandage. The soldier—_what was she supposed to call him?—_sported patchwork bruises in ugly purples, grays, and greens, more heavily in some areas of his chest and abdomen than others. Lily was drawn to his arm, made of plated metal, glinting in the light. The place where skin fused with weapon bore raised and chaotic lines of scars. Isaac waded up the already bloody t-shirt and kept additional pressure on the wound.

Lily didn't even realize he had regained consciousness until she felt his hand curl around her wrist.

* * *

Muffled voices hummed somewhere far off, and blurry scraps of images played like an old film reel behind his eyelids. Metal screeched and grated on his nerves, and he caught a second of red, white, and blue. A face, scrawnier than he remembered, a shock of blond hair and determined blue eyes. But soon the ice crept in and filled up the hollow spaces and the rhythm of tracks under train wheels pounded into his skull. He felt like he'd been pushed—or maybe he'd fallen—and gasped awake, throwing out his arms. He latched onto a wrist with his right hand and bright, pale blue eyes—different from the ones he'd seen in his unconscious mind—floated in front of his returning vision.

Her hand made a fist in his grip and she glared at him, wild-eyed and frightened. He heard his breaths coming in shallow pieces.

"Let go," she demanded. He searched her face—unfamiliar; where was he?—and worked to even out his breathing. Tried to remember. "_Hey_! I said, _let go_. Calm down. You're all right."

He released her wrist, watching as she rubbed the welts in the shape of fingerprints that had already shown up on her skin. She had turned away from him but remained at his side while his short-term memories flooded back.

There was a voice ringing in his ear, repeating his name. _Bucky._ It ran like a mantra to the tune of train tracks and he couldn't figure out why. _Bucky. Bucky._ His name. Maybe if he held onto it long enough, it would stick. He hadn't gone by anything more than Asset, Soldier, Weapon, for as long as his memory reached. Which wasn't far.

_You're all right. You're all right…_

No, he wasn't. His senses regained their strength upon stirring, and the antiseptic smell that assaulted his nose threw his stomach into an upheaval. He bristled, conjuring up images of things he would have rather forgotten. The haze lingered in his mind, and he grasped onto everything he did not wish to see as though it had all succeeded in collapsing on him at once. The muted tones of the room. The sterile tiled floor and starched sheets. Clinical. Institutional. Full of people with needles and cryo-chambers and white lab coats and beeping machines and devices that sent lightning strikes through his brain and—

The sight of the man in scrubs sent him staggering on the edge.

_No_, his mind wailed, _I don't want to go back. Don't take me back…_

He leveled the young woman standing at his bedside—_Lily, her name was Lily, she'd mentioned it in the car_—with a scathing glare.

He grit out his words through his teeth. "You lied to me."

"I'm sorry," she replied, but it meant nothing to his ears. "I know we don't trust each other right now. I screwed up. I get it. I promise I'll get you out of here as soon as I can."

_You can't get out of places like this. _

* * *

His look of absolute betrayal threatened to burn a hole right through her.

The guilt clawed its way in real fast. "Nothing's going to happen to—"

He sat up, grabbing at the sheet on the mattress, causing Isaac to relinquish the pressure he had been applying to staunch the blood flow, which seemed to be less now. Glancing around frantically, the anger and hurt on his face deepened.

"Where's my gun?"

Lily stepped backward. "I took it," she told him. "It would've made the nurses uncomfortable. I'll give it back once you're treated, but you have to lie down. You don't have enough strength to fight."

He attempted to disprove that, but Isaac held him. Or, rather, he did before receiving a nasty backhand to the nose that left him reeling. The soldier turned on Lily, who put her hands up in defense, but he didn't strike. Somehow, the wounded and lost expression that filled up his steel blue eyes made Lily feel as though she had been slapped right across the face.

His voice, stern yet broken, was like a second punch to the gut. "You _lied_ to me." Lily couldn't avert his gaze. "I gave you my word, I wouldn't hurt you. And you…" The shudder of a breath he let out was ragged and managed to tear at every fiber of Lily's being. She swore his eyes were wet with unshed tears.

Whatever he wanted to say next was drowned out by two things that happened at once—the door opened and Mia walked in, her arms loaded with supplies, just in time to see Isaac lunge at their patient.

"Isaac, _don't_," Lily pleaded.

Isaac pinned down one of the soldier's shoulders, his nose dripping blood. Protocol had flown right out the window in favor of Isaac's own aggression. The soldier shoved into Isaac's chest, and he went careening a few feet backward, nearly slamming into Mia. Isaac rolled onto his back with a pained groan and Mia side-stepped him, dumping medical supplies onto the spare bed. She flew at the soldier's bedside, immediately grappling for the restraints. Letting out a small yelp, Mia tried forcing the soldier's metal fist into the mattress so she could wind the strap around it. He fought her every step of the way, thrashing, until something like cold terror seized his movements and he tensed up.

Lily watched him search her out, since she was the only person left in the room who hadn't physically attacked him.

Mia blew strands of hair out her face. "Lily, help me!"

Those haunted eyes cut into her soul.

"Please," he begged. He was tired, exhausted of fighting—she could see it. "Don't do this…" He wouldn't let her look away, and she couldn't if she tried. "Not again. I don't want to go back. Make them stop. _Please._ Please…"

"_Mia_," Lily snapped, louder than she'd intended. "Stop."

Mia's brown eyes narrowed. "Are you kidding me?"

Isaac picked himself off the floor, his thumb and forefinger pinching the bridge of his nose. He was starting for the door.

"Don't even think about it, Isaac," Lily said, once again surprised at her resolute control. Isaac stiffened at the threshold.

"He'll kill us if I don't get him into these restraints," Mia argued. "I'm two seconds away from calling the cops."

"He'll kill you if you touch those restraints again," Lily corrected. "Just, stop, okay?" She peered down at the soldier, who'd eased himself back against the pillows. "She'll suture you up and I'll get you out of here. Promise."

She wondered if trust could ever be established between them.

* * *

"There's not much I can do about the blood loss, since technically the two of you don't exist in this place," Mia stated. Lily heard a metallic sound as a chunk of bullet dropped into a container. "But, it looks like the bullet didn't get very far. The damage isn't too bad…missed everything critical. He should be all right in a week or so once I get this stitched up."

Mia sutured his gunshot wound with a degree of animosity that she didn't do well to conceal, not that Lily could blame her. Lily was cautious about revealing certain information, especially in front of him. It was easy to see that his mental state was in a worse condition than his physical well-being, and the last thing she wanted to do was overwhelm him or set him off. She thought it might be better this way, to allow him some time before she confronted him about what he did and didn't know. And, she was positive he didn't know a lot—otherwise, he wouldn't have acted like he was now.

He wasn't the man in the black and white film reels and photographs. He wasn't the same person she'd heard spoken about in stories.

That person was supposed to be dead. A fact she was continuing to come to terms with. Sergeant James Barnes—_alive_. Ever since Steve Rogers returned, she figured anything was possible, but this… It was beyond her. Beyond anything she could handle or deal with. But what choice was there, really? She couldn't very well abandon him. Not _him_, of all people. Especially considering the complete turnaround he'd taken in last seventy-plus years. Lily felt a certain amount of responsibility to find out what had happened, to help him in any way she could.

Of course, that responsibility might have been better suited to the Captain himself.

Maybe that was a conversation for later.

Lily rubbed at her neck, a tension headache weaseling its way in. Mia was just finishing up her sutures. She watched his taut muscles flutter at Mia's touch while she bandaged the wound, like he wished to sink into the mattress as far away from her as possible. His distress at the gentlest of touches bothered Lily. Something about it hinted at something much worse, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know.

Isaac sat sullenly on the spare bed, extra scraps of bandage wadded up his nostril. Mia made a gesture for him to stay put and tugged Lily out of the room on her way out to dispose of the bloodied clothing and other unsanitary items. She'd left a hospital gown for the soldier, but Lily doubted he would wear it.

They slipped into the alcove outfitted with a couple of vending machines. The hum that engulfed the space irritated Lily's pounding head.

"You're going to turn him in, aren't you?"

Lily avoided Mia's accusatory and expectant look. "It's…complicated."

"I don't care who you think he is, he's dangerous. I don't want him spending the night."

"So, what do you want me to do, throw him out on the street?"

"A simple 911 call would be great. I'll even do it for you."

Lily exhaled. She had to appease her roommate. "I'll call first thing in the morning. Let him rest a while."

"_You_ better be alive in the morning," Mia protested. "I'll tell them there's a maintenance issue with the room, should hold off questions for the time being. I've got to go, I'm still on shift." She sighed. "Just to let you know, I hate—_hate_—this. You watch yourself, Lily. Promise me, too."

"I promise."

She followed Mia's retreating form down the hallway until she disappeared around a corner.

Lily leaned her head against the wall. _Right. Complicated. That's one way to put it. _

When she returned to the room, Lily dropped the blankets at the foot of the soldier's bed, but he had already been claimed by sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I don't own anything except the OC's.**

**A/N: Thank you so much for reading and following! Let me know what you think, I'd love to hear it. Enjoy!**

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Lily wanted to sleep. And she needed it—her headache had begun to disperse, but she had worked a full day at the museum and the added drama of the evening had left her drained. It was difficult to stop her thoughts from wandering in the dark. She was finally alone in the quiet—Isaac had left with a stern warning, and the soldier's sleeping form in the bed didn't provide much company. The events of the evening had a way of catching up. Lily wondered what kind of cosmic forces had conspired for this to happen, for him to land on her doorstep.

She had the strangest feeling that she already knew the answer.

Another part of her couldn't let go of what Mia had said. Lily may have known who he was, but it didn't change the fact that he was dangerous. He was capable of and trained for things she couldn't comprehend. Lily had basic self-defense training—a couple of college campus seminars she and Mia had taken while in undergrad—but none of that would suffice despite him not having a weapon. He had been made _into _one. There was nothing stopping him from ripping this room to pieces and killing her while she slept. Trust was a nonexistent entity, though she might have seen a very thin and frayed thread of it when he had asked her to tell Mia to lay off with the restraints.

Lily had hurt him by bringing him here. Whatever trust he had been willing to give in the car had dissolved the moment he regained consciousness. She regret it, deeply, but her fear had outweighed everything else. He had to understand that. If she had known who he was sooner, she wouldn't have considered it. That side of him—the Soldier—unnerved her, but that brutal look of a troubled man had to belong to Sergeant Barnes. The guilt would plague her the entire night if she closed her eyes.

She wondered if he had the capacity to forgive, after everything he appeared to have gone through.

The sheets of the bed rustled. From her spot in the armchair opposite the end of the bed, she watched his careful movements. They had kept the lights off to give the impression that the room was unoccupied, and in the dark Lily could only see his silhouette. She had no way of knowing how long he had been awake, or if he had noticed she had yet to catch an ounce of sleep.

The Soldier—no, it didn't seem right to call him that. Lily decided to mentally address him as Sergeant Barnes instead, as she had in every exhibit tour she'd given. The title was a show of respect. Lily wasn't familiar enough with him at this point to use his nickname, though it was primarily what she'd known him by.

Sgt. Barnes eased himself off the bed, stifling a grunt, and paced over to the window. He drew back the blinds, partially, and stood there in silence, staring out into the night. Slats of artificial light from the parking lot illuminated him, picking up all the edges and angles of his face and chest. There was something about the shadow across his face that made his gaze distant rather than intimidating.

A thought struck her then. She had been quietly mulling it over ever since she remembered the flyer in his hands. If he had no hope of receiving help, if things had been worse, had he meant to take his last breaths at the Smithsonian?

* * *

He knew she was awake. Her breathing gave her away. Every sound in the room magnified in the night, though he kept his own deep-seated fear at bay knowing it wasn't HYDRA threatening to burst through the walls. Yet. He had been internally cataloging each and every sound his ears attuned to for the past half hour, though the anxiety of being surrounded by a large population of people made it a bothersome task. Every squeak of a wheel. Every footstep. Every mechanical whir and beep of a machine up and down the hall. The waves of voices that swelled and dispersed, each different in tone and pitch. He couldn't help but collect every last microscopic detail. The thought of hiding in what was essentially plain sight had him falling back on his heightened senses and training to protect him. He felt too vulnerable here.

Unable to relinquish himself to a fitful sleep, he went to the window and peered through the blinds at the bird's eye view of the parking lot and surrounding buildings. Escape was the top priority on his mind. He'd thought of stealing back his weapon. Several times. He couldn't bring himself to do it and couldn't understand why.

He was acutely aware of the pain that radiated from the bandage. Lily's friend—_Mia_, he recalled—had given him something for the pain but it was beginning to wear off. It didn't matter to him. Soldier had been trained to ignore pain, to fight through it until the Mission was complete.

_It did matter._ It _had _to—pain was a human experience. He wasn't Soldier. Not Soldier, not a Weapon, not an Asset. Human.

_Bucky._ Rogers had called him that. It had to mean something. It had to be important.

But he wasn't that man anymore. How could he ever be again?

"You should sleep."

He turned his head to see Lily sitting at the edge of the armchair, one leg crossed over the other. The light from outside barely reached her, but he could see her face. That voice in the distance of his mind, the one that was sometimes and sometimes not connected to his foremost thoughts, pondered about how old she was. She appeared very young—but then again, he felt very old. Not necessarily in his bones, but what could pass for his soul. Whatever of it was left.

"I'm sorry," she said, when he didn't speak. "But I was scared, and I thought about what was best for me. For my safety. I didn't…" Lily paused. "Things are a bit different now. I didn't realize what it would do to you, to be here. My promise still stands, if you're willing to forgive."

A great deal of time passed. He looked at her. "You should have left me there."

"And you would've bled to death. You got in my car."

He returned his gaze to the window.

Lily's voice was closer the next time she spoke. "Why did you?"

He stared at her. She had stood up, her arms folded over her chest. "Why did you offer?"

"I wouldn't have been able to stop thinking about it if I didn't," she said. "But you still didn't have to get in my car."

"I shouldn't have."

He closed the blinds and crawled back into the bed, ending the conversation. Lily sighed and returned to the armchair, allowing them to have their own silences.

The words had left his mouth, but he wasn't sure if he could believe them. He wondered if she would.

Her offer had been his best option—even when he wasn't sure where it would lead. What she didn't know—what he couldn't get himself to tell her—was that he'd planned to take the car instead. It was useful, valuable. But what would he have done then? Bleed to death in it?

Desperation was new to him. He didn't take kindly to it. Soldier considered the emotion weak.

He couldn't leave, not yet. Not when he had an unexpected variable to account for. HYDRA could have had its sights set on them—Lily and her friend. If he left too soon, he would be marking them for death. He had to be absolutely sure it was safe.

_That's not your concern_, the warring voice reminded him. _Who cares, as long as you get out intact? Survival is imperative. What's a couple more casualties? You owe them nothing. _

No. No more casualties. The only lives he was determined to take were HYDRA's. He wasn't their Weapon anymore. He didn't take their Orders. He made his own. He wasn't theirs to claim.

_Yes, you are. You always will be. _

_No matter how fast you try to run. _

_No matter how hard you fight. _

He squeezed his eyes shut and recited his internal mantra against the kill order Soldier was yelling at him. He focused on the voice that may have been his in another time.

_My name is Bucky. _

* * *

Sirens droned in the background of Lily's half-coherent dreams. Her eyebrows knit together while she slept, and let her head loll to the other side in an attempt to shake the sound. Instead, it crept in closer, high-pitched, whining, like it was—

She jolted awake, disoriented, and took a moment to blink the grogginess away. Her muscles were stiff and her neck hurt from falling asleep in an uncomfortable position. She didn't even remember drifting off, but apparently she had used her blazer as a pillow and hadn't thought to settle herself into the spare bed. Lily was paying for the decision now, as she worked her fingertips in circles at the base of her neck and shoulders. Her back gave a few ugly sounding pops when she stretched, pushing herself out of the offending armchair.

A streak of alarmed realization sent her stomach fluttering. She rooted through her bag, fingers halting as they skirted the gun at the bottom. Lily recovered her cell phone and the screen lit up in her palm. Her battery was on its last legs, but what she'd really been searching for was the time. _7:00 AM. _

The night had been a blur of endless stretches of time and Lily had no recollection of exactly how long they'd been here. What she did know at this moment was that she wouldn't be making it to work on schedule, so it would probably serve her better to take the day off. She couldn't remember when she'd last taken a day, but after everything she'd been through, she might have deserved it.

Lily slid into her blazer and tucked her phone into a pocket. She began digging around in her bag yet again for her wallet, but paused once she felt eyes on her. Turning her head to the side, she saw Sgt. Barnes sitting up against the pillows, awake, as though maybe he hadn't slept at all. His hollow eyes looked much the same as they did last night as they did now in the dull gray morning. Dry blood had pooled beneath the bandage near his ribs. His skin still clung to that sickly pallor of blood loss and malnutrition, but at least he didn't look like he was on the brink of death. Lily wondered for a moment what exactly was keeping him alive. It would be best for him, she knew, if he were able to stay here for a week. That wasn't in the realm of possibility.

She was surprised to find him there, surprised he hadn't ditched her the minute she fell asleep.

Lily shoved her wallet in the inside pocket of her blazer, not wanting to carry around a bag that happened to house a loaded gun and extra rounds of ammunition.

"I'm going to grab a coffee," she announced. "Do you want anything?"

He didn't speak to her. It wasn't a shock, but she figured she would try nevertheless.

"We'll duck out of here in an hour," Lily assured. "Try to get some rest."

Leaving him alone probably wasn't the best idea, but she comforted herself with the fact that she would only be gone for ten minutes, if that. She waited until the amount of people on their end of the hallway thinned out before she eased out of the door. The alcove did not have a coffee machine in its arsenal, though Lily thought about getting a snack. Her stomach rumbled at the idea, sorry she would be missing her routine breakfast date this morning. The thought of consuming a bag of chips at this hour wasn't appealing. She contemplated whether or not a trip to the cafeteria would be feasible, but ultimately decided to make breakfast when they got home.

_They._ Lily groaned, smoothing a hand through her tangled hair while she made a vague attempt at navigating the winding hallways. She'd promised two separate things to two different people. If she broke the word she'd given to Mia and he ended up at their apartment—because where else would he go?—she would be in a lot of trouble. Assuming, of course, that he agreed to follow her and hadn't in fact ditched her at this very moment.

She didn't envision this going well either way.

Several more random turns, and the coffee machine was within view. The uniformed bodies she walked past were bleary-eyed, shuffling zombie-like beside their colleagues. It was exceptionally difficult to tell between those who were just starting their shift and those who were free to sleep or eat breakfast. Lily supposed she didn't appear much different, all wrinkled clothes and long bedhead hair that had once been gently curled.

The odor of disinfectant was beginning to bother her. Lily wasn't fond of hospitals, either, so she could sort of see why Sgt. Barnes had been vehemently against it. They had always left her feeling morose.

She placed a call to her boss to inform him that she wouldn't be making an appearance at work today, which he responded to with a laugh of disbelief and a note to feel better but enjoy her free time. It was only after she had hung up that she noticed there were three missed calls from Mia. She'd left a voicemail, but Lily didn't want to hear it—she didn't have to.

Replacing her phone, Lily singled out a couple of dollar bills from her wallet and guided them into the machine. Her hand traced over the buttons in deliberation—she didn't remember any hospital coffee machines having quite this many choices—and she hesitated there as an influx of noise reached her ears.

Lily tensed, frozen to the spot. She faked preoccupation and turned her head to the side to peer down the hallway. Garbled, static laced commands interspersed with an increase in the volume of chatter. Lily saw them, a small group of navy clad police officers infiltrating the pastel, blue-green, and white crowd. Some spoke off to the side into their radios while others stopped to question nurses and doctors with confusion written into their faces. They wove through the traffic at the end of the corridor like a virus, so much darker than their surroundings.

Lily's nausea returned.

Her coffee became an afterthought as she kept her head down and took brusque strides away from the growing scene. Cold sweat gripped her, terror coursing its way through her veins faster than coffee ever could. Her adrenaline began to pick up double-time.

There was only one person they would be searching for.

* * *

He detected the sudden shift in the atmosphere outside the room the second it happened.

The subdued calm and melancholy that tucked itself away into the corners had been traded for urgency, a faster pace that interrupted the routine order of the day. He knew something was off. He was used to places like this, places that kept every hour in line and did not deviate from its intended purpose.

There was a new presence encroaching—he heard their footsteps, uniformed and heavy.

They were under attack.

He hopped out of the bed, ignoring the jolt of pain it sent through his stitches. A frustrated noise left him when he scooped to pick up the sweatshirt that had been left at his feet. Pain was an inconvenience. He could deal with it. He had no other choice.

Escape was priority. HYDRA or not, they wouldn't take Lily if they had never seen the two of them together.

His limbs gave the impression that they wanted to move on their own accord, rooting through Lily's bag. A laminated ID badge caught his wrist, the lanyard looped around his artificial plating. His eyes traced the Smithsonian logo that had been on the flyer he no longer possessed. The sight of red, white, and blue threw off his focus.

But it wasn't enough.

The beat of his pulse thrummed in his ears. Rage burned through every fiber of his being—he could feel it underneath his skin. Changing him, taking hold. That voice belonging to the man he had supposedly been before the turn was silent, replaced by blind fury and Soldier's chant of war. He tried to summon that voice back—_Bucky, Bucky, Bucky?_—but instinct had already taken over.

No, not instinct.

This was worse. Weapons had no instinct—this was what he had been _programmed_ for. This was his primary function. His purpose.

Soldier incited his rage. _They are the enemy._ _Kill them. It would be easy. Nothing. So fast… _

It would be. He couldn't deny that. He saw it, in his mind's eye—approaching them as soon as they opened the door, snapping several necks, getting a few shots off before he made his escape. _Easy._ Not even lack of sleep or the healing wound would slow him once adrenaline took over.

But his mind didn't stop there—he saw himself with his hands curled around Lily's throat, horror in her eyes before he took the life out of them. If he started with the officers, he wouldn't be able to stop. He didn't trust himself to end it there. Soldier would kill Lily, too. He would demand it.

_You already got what you needed. Kill them. _

"No," he whispered. It was a broken, pathetic noise. A headache was beginning to announce its presence behind his eyelids.

The doorknob twisted.

He fought against the swell of Soldier's wrath. _My name is Bucky._

_You can never be human again._

* * *

Lily shut the door behind her. "We have to go. Now."

The statement seemed redundant once she saw Sgt. Barnes had stolen his gun and was working to hook the belt around his waist. He had retreated into his hooded sweatshirt, marred with a dark stain near the middle and smaller splotches by one of the sleeves. He pulled up the hood when he had the belt and drew the zipper to conceal his wounds. The glove, she realized, had been lost somewhere in the commotion of the night, so he stuffed his hand into his pocket.

The other was clutched around the gun handle.

Lily approached him as he clicked a bullet into place. "You're not going to need that." She kept her voice in a harsh whisper.

The look he gave her was vacant, with barely-contained fury brewing in his expression. It was not Sgt. Barnes she was now speaking to.

"You can't trust anyone," he said.

"They're police."

"They could be HYDRA," he remarked.

HYDRA. The name hit her with a wave of dread, prickling along her limbs. The reports said it was connected to what had happened over the Potomac, as well as SHIELD, but she didn't know much. She hadn't had an opportunity to update herself on the latest developments beyond what she caught in newscasts. Lily had thought, like everyone else, that the organization had collapsed.

He stepped forward, but Lily pushed a hand into his chest. She was sure he could feel her trembling. It was like trying to move a brick wall. She was sure he would tackle her to the ground and strangle her for it, but he didn't do anything except cringe at the contact. Lily regretted the abrupt reaction and made a mental note not to repeat it.

"But if they're not," she said, carefully, trying not to be intimidated by his murderous stare. "They see you with that—if they see you _at all_, this will go from bad to beyond worse."

His stare did not cease, but Lily heard the click of the safety. He hid the gun in his waistband. "Let's go."

Lily found herself stunned by the offer. Shouldering her bag, she trailed him to the door. He flattened his side against the surface, peeking through the thin, vertical window. He held up his hand to her, keeping her back.

Every second that passed made Lily's pulse quicken, her breath caught in her throat.

There was a very real and frightening possibility of them being caught. Both of them. Lily would go to prison just as fast as he would.

She wasn't sure if she trusted him enough to get her out of here unnoticed.

* * *

He didn't know what had possessed him to help her. Despite that dark whisper assaulting his thoughts and the necessity of his own escape, he had the thought to get her out of here. If they arrested Lily, it would be easier for HYDRA to find her. Which meant they would locate him in a heartbeat and drag him back to them no matter how hard he managed to fight.

His cheek pressed to the door, he had a clear view of the hallway out the tiny window. Two officers surfaced several doors down, but there was another corridor that branched off from this one two feet away. He waited. The officers disappeared into another hospital room. He turned the handle and leaned his weight into the door, opening it just enough for Lily to get through.

"Go," he ordered. "The hallway on your right. Don't look at them."

Lily nodded and he watched her exit, taking a diagonal path to the other corridor. He followed her after a moment's hesitation, covering the distance in less strides than her demure stature allowed. He hadn't realized the eight to nine inch height discrepancy between them, but it helped to train his eyes while they kept several paces separating them down the whitewashed hallways.

_You can take them all down. Even her. _

He squeezed his eyes shut, and the noise of voices and machinery covered up his pitiful whimper.

Being out here wasn't good for him.

He covered the distance between them as he heard pieces of sounds that told him the officers were gaining. Her back collided with his chest when she stepped to move out of the way of a passing gurney, and she halted.

"Keep going."

They turned down a narrower passage, stacks of medical supplies piled up on top of each other, crowding the space. A discarded gurney with its sheets stripped blocked their path, and Lily nudged it out of the way to press forward into the main corridor.

He heard it as they reached the intersection—radio chatter mixed up in static, the rhythm of boots against tile. A tremor worked its way down his spine. His head ached, a sensation of electrical pain prodding at his memory. They paused at the crossroads, Lily staring wide-eyed at an officer who appeared to be walking in their direction.

_His hands around the officer's neck. The officer's body sliding to the floor. _

_Easy. _

"Shut up," he hissed. He hadn't meant to say it aloud, but that, too, was lost to the dull roar surrounding them.

Lily gave a yelp as he seized a fistful of her jacket and wrenched her backward into the narrow space. He shoved them both behind a rack of supplies, his head bowed out of sight. He still had one arm splayed off to the side, pinning Lily's body against the wall to keep her hidden behind his larger frame. His eyes found an opening to get a view of the hallway, anticipating the officer to walk past. Lily's shoulder dug into his back, but he was vaguely aware of it, senses concentrated to the training that was still second nature.

"Wait," he told her.

He nudged her into the space he left vacant after the officer's footsteps receded. The opposite wall crashed into his spine, jarring the wound again. Inching his way to the corner of the passage, he leaned his head against the wall before turning to scour the corridor. Another officer, female, her hand at her hip, approached. Breathing out an expletive, he pushed off the wall and ducked behind the gurney.

"There's a stairwell to the left," Lily told him. "I saw it. It should go all the way to the parking lot."

* * *

She saw his microscopic nod.

He put up his hand behind him to tell her to wait. Lily studied him from where she was crammed next to the supply shelf. In a low crouch, he used the gurney to go forward to the intersection again. If another officer decided to make an appearance, he wouldn't be left without cover. After several prolonged seconds of waiting, in which Lily tried to hush the sound of her ragged breaths, he rose from his crouch and beckoned her toward him with a tiny flick of his fingers.

"Move fast."

They darted across the wide hallway and made for the door that led to the stairwell. Lily got to it first, slamming her weight into it. The rush of cool air that greeted her was welcomed, drying the beads of sweat that had collected at her temples and in the crevices of her neck. They left the sterile hallways for the gray stairwells that descended to boxy landings all the way down to the ground level. The unmistakable hospital smell was less overpowering here, but there was still a faint musty odor.

Lily ran down, careful not to trip in her heels. The clatter they made was painful to both her ears and her toes. She heard Sgt. Barnes' heavy footfalls behind her, and then at her side, taking a couple of stairs at a time. The nausea from before was replaced by a dizzying amount of adrenaline. Lily barreled past a young nurse on her approach to the ground level, leaving the poor girl stuttering and groping for the handrail to balance herself in their wake.

She slowed at the door, forcing herself to quick walk before she emerged into the overcast morning. A gust of wind toyed with her hair, blowing strands over her face as she stalked across the concrete pathway to what she now guessed was the side parking lot. The distant wail of sirens caused her stomach to lurch, and she shrunk into her blazer out of instinct. She maintained a confident, practiced stride, willing her body to stop quaking. She told herself it was the late September wind.

Her heels clacked on the asphalt—but they were the only footsteps she heard.

Lily turned and found herself completely and utterly alone.

_But he had been right there… _

She jogged around the corner toward the rear lot, thinking that he might have somehow beat her to it. Lily _swore_ he had been trailing her. He had followed her out of the door, she was sure of it. She hadn't even gotten that far to be able to lose track of him. The notion seemed impossible.

He was nowhere in sight.

Lily knew he couldn't have been grabbed, otherwise she would have been alerted to the ensuing uproar that would have caused.

But he was gone. He had, in fact, ditched her.

_He really is a ghost. _


End file.
